


Sails & Anchors

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Beaches, Boats and Ships, Captain Basil, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Model Ships, Sea Holidays, sea stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: ACD ficlet collection with a nautical theme. Ships, boats, sailors & the sea. All chapters stand alone (unless otherwise indicated). Ratings & warnings vary.14. Seaside stitches. Holmes is injured on holiday. Friends to lovers. Rating: Teen.





	1. Seadog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Seadog  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 350  
> Summary: Watson provides a visual aide for a case.   
> Author’s Note: In the Granada series, Watson is making a boat in one episode and it shows up in Holmes’s bedroom in a subsequent episode. For the July LJ Holmes_Minor comm prompt: dog days

“I just cannot see it! Why can I not see it? Watson, have you any tobacco? I’ve exhausted my supply. Oh, don’t tell me he’s gone out! Watson!”   
  
And on that cue, I made my way down the stairs.   
  
“Will this help?”   
  
It was rare that I rendered Holmes speechless. I savoured the moment.   
  
“It’s the _Matilda Briggs_ ,” he said, reaching for the boat in my hands. “How?”   
  
“I made it.”   
  
“What? In an hour?”   
  
“It’s going on four in the afternoon, Holmes. You’ve been in a fog for the better part of the day.”   
  
He glanced at the window. “Oh, yes,” he said in a vague tone.   
  
“You were having trouble imagining the ship. I thought perhaps a concrete aide might help.”   
  
“This is some workmanship. Very fine,” he said, examining the vessel from all sides. “I’ll never get your limits, Watson.  
When—?”  
  
“I used to make them with my father and brother. It was the one thing we enjoyed together.”    
  
Holmes smiled, then gasped and one dark eyebrow rose. “Is she seaworthy?”   
  
I grinned. “Oh, yes.”    
  
“Mrs. Hudson!” he cried. “A bath!”

* * *

There was a loud splash, then a thud, then a cry.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson!”   
  
“Oh, dear me,” she murmured as she cleared away the tea things.   
  
Holmes burst into the room, the front of him sopping wet, and took her into his arms.    
  
“Mister Holmes!” she protested as he waltzed her around the room.   
  
“There’ll be a gold doubloon for you, m’lassie! Fa-la-la!” he sang as he released her with a debonair twirl.    
  
Then he turned to me.   
  
“Come, Watson, I hope that tea was one of Mrs. Hudson’s splendidly heavy ones for we’ve a long night ahead of us, and if I may be so bold as to say, your price, most gentlemanly of seadogs, is far above rubies.”   
  
He bowed and took my hand and kissed the top of it gallantly, then he clapped both of his hands together and said with ghoulish glee,   
  
“Tonight, we shall meet the Giant Rat of Sumatra!”   
  
“As long as you don’t bring it home!” groaned Mrs. Hudson.


	2. The Cutty Sark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson gives Holmes a model tea clipper for his birthday. Gen. Follows on from the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the original version of [Cheerly, Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rr-biMEsCL4).

That my friend Sherlock Holmes is a master of disguise has been a oft-mentioned feature of my accounts of our adventures together. Over the years, he has worn many a costume, from the vestments of a nonconformist clergymen to the blue shirt of a French ouvrier, with ease, but perhaps his most well-outfitted role was that of the East End familiar, Captain Basil.

Of course, Holmes rarely returned to our Baker Street rooms in character; it would’ve defeated the purpose of most of his efforts if his true identity had been linked to his false ones, but I always knew when he was playing Captain Basil because the cursory wash afforded by a bolt-hole never thoroughly obliterated the smell of the docks. He could shed his coat and cap and even his thin moustache, but the foul briny fragrance lingered.

He had been out most of that day, which surprised me, for that January was unseasonably, unforgivingly cold, but it also pleased me, for it fitted neatly with my plans.

When I descended the stairs at his call of my name, the faint, but pungent aroma of Captain Basil was a second surprise. It too, however, pleased me, for it fitted nicely what I had in the box in my hands.

“Happy Birthday,” I said when I reached the sitting room.

“Goodness,” he said, with what I hoped was a mild, but undisguised, astonishment. “I’ve not celebrated my birthday, well, ever.”

“Do you not wish to celebrate it? I’ll cancel the feast I’ve ordered to be delivered from Simpson’s.”

His eyes widened and a tiny smile twitched on his lips. “Perish the thought. In all seriousness, let it sink to the bottom of the sea like the _Cutter Alicia_.”

“Speaking of which,” I said and drew out a model boat from the box. “For you. Many returns of the day.”

“Oh, Watson!” he breathed. “What a ship! This is very fine work. Even more detailed than the replica of the _Matilda Briggs_ which you crafted and then so gallantly abandoned to my bathtub reenactment.”

“This one has a less tragic history. It’s the _Cutty Sark_ , one of the last of the tea clippers.”

Holmes nodded. “Beautiful. Thank you. And don’t worry about its fate. I shall not abuse it to splinters as I did Miss _Matilda_.”

“Well, I did anticipate the urge, so here,” I drew out a second ship, “a much cruder, but much heartier version of the vessel. This one you may, ah, sail across the seven seas. Your enjoyment of the _Matilda Briggs_ seemed to exceed that of the mere professional puzzle-solver at work.”

Now he was grinning gleefully. “You know me too well, Watson.”

Then he took the second boat from my hands and sighed, “A boat in the bath! I shall bathe at once, not only to ready myself for a lovely dinner, but to see this fine craft on her maiden voyage.”

I smiled.

“Mrs. Hudson, a bath!” he called.

* * *

Later, I heard him. I tilted my head as if eavesdropping though it can hardly be said to be eavesdropping if the voice to which one is listening is a baritone booming at such a volume that the whole household, indeed, a small portion of street is unable to avoid hearing it.

It was, I might add, not the voice of Sherlock Holmes, but that of Captain Basil, singing a song, or a variation of a song, rather, much like my _Cutty Sark_ was an imitation of the clipper itself, to a tune known to every sailor who’s ever hoisted or swabbed or eyed the horizon.

And as I listened, my heart warmed and thought, not for the first nor last time, there really was no one in the world quite like Captain Basil.

* * *

Brave doctor-soldier, hi-ho

_Cheerly man_

Bullet shattered his shoulder

_Cheerly man_

Fell like a boulder, hi-ho

_O! Haulee, Hi-oh, Cheerly, man!_

 

Dispatched like a parcel, ho

_Cheerly man_

No strength left to marshal, ho

_Cheerly man_

Pain by the arseful, hi-ho

_cheerly man_

_O! Haulee, Hi-oh, Cheerly, man!_

 

‘Pon the _Oronte_ s, hi-ho,

_Cheerly man_

Pint’s worth of Sundays, hi-ho

_Cheerly man_

Groanin’ a-sideways ‘n’ frontways,

_cheerly man_

_O! Haulee, Hi-oh, Cheerly, man!_

 

‘Pon Portsmouth jetty, hi-ho

_cheerly man_

War-ruined ‘n’ wrecked he, hi-ho

_cheerly man_

Washed up, pale, peak'd ‘n’ petty

_O! Haulee, Hi-oh, Cheerly, man!_

 

Where’s that ol’ soldier? hi-ho

_Cheeerly man_

With the ache in his shoulder?

_Cheerly man_

Better and bolder! hi-ho

_O! Haulee, Hi-oh, Cheerly, man!_


	3. Friesland.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives."_ The Norwood Builder.
> 
>  
> 
> Holmes/Watson. First kiss. H/C fluff. Near drowning.
> 
> I took the language at the end (the lying on the sofa bit) from "The Sign of Four" and this is more about the song "After the Ball."

Dark waves lapped at my chin. Cold settled in my bones.

I’d been near death on so many occasions, and each time, I was startled at how different it was from those prior.

It was to be a watery grave.

Not beneath a ruthless Afghan sun or a foul-smelling hospital tent or even a fog-covered London moon.

Water.

Curious.

“Good-bye, my friend. It’s been an honour, a pleasure,” I said, using my last resources, faculties and strength, to force the words loud and clear through chattering teeth.

“Damn it, Watson!”

I closed my eyes and remembered a song.

_After the ball is over._

_After the break of more._

“WATSON!”

There was a crash, then a sucking roar, and then a force, like a pair of iron hands springing from the hull of the steamer, gripped me and drew me under the water.

* * *

“WATSON!”

Just like Holmes to interrupt me when I was trying to remember something.

That song. How did it go?

_After the ball is over_

_After the break of morn_

_After—_

“Don’t you dare, Watson. Do you hear me? Don’t.”

“HOLMES!”

“LESTRADE! HERE!”

* * *

“We got ‘em all, thanks to you gentlemen,” said Lestrade. “A shocking affair, this one. Dutch authorities have been notified. She sank, of course.”

I was ensconced in my armchair, wrapped in three heavy woolen blankets and Holmes’s concerned gaze, before the fire.

I watched the flames, not ready to rejoin the living, much less the living and conversing, just yet.

I still felt those dark waves lapping at my chin.

“We might have sunk with the _Friesland_ , Inspector, were it not for you. We owe you a debt of gratitude,” said Holmes.

“Well, I expect it will make a clever story. Now, I’d best be going, unless…”

I felt the heat of their stares.

“I am fine. Thank you, Inspector,” I said, offering him a weak smile.

“Thank you, sir, and good night, or good morning, rather.”

I frowned at the snifter of brandy cupped in my hands, then set it on the table.

“Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“Are you quite all right?”

I heard the smile in his reply. “Yes.”

“Do you think there’s the possibility of tea at this hour? The brandy is not living up to expectations.”

“I shall make inquiries.”

* * *

“Success.”

I took the cup from him and sipped and sighed.

“Better,” he observed.

“Better,” I agreed.

I spent a few minutes letting the tea’s warmth pulse through me. Then I said,

“Thank you for saving my life, Holmes. I was resigned. I shouldn’t have been.”

“If we’d been ambushed on a dark side street, you would’ve fought like the soldier you are, but there are many battlefields in this life. Water is a curious one.”

“Yes, yes, I thought so, too. Curious.”

“More tea?”

“Is there more?”

He smiled.

As he poured, he began to sing.

“ _After the ball is over,_

_After the break of morn –_

_After the dancers' leaving;_

_After the stars are gone_ …”

I looked up at him, startled.

“You were singing it when they fished us out. You had us worried, Watson.”

“I’m sorry, Holmes.”

He returned to his armchair, humming.

I kept my eyes on the fire and sang in a soft, off-key whisper.

“ _After the case is over,_

_After the ship is sunk –_

_After the copper’s leaving;_

_After the tea is drunk_.”

Holmes chuckled.

“How does the rest of it go?” I asked, then sipped my tea through his sung reply.

“ _Many a heart is aching,_

_If you could read them all;_

_Many the hopes that have vanished_

_After the ball._ ”

When he finished, he stood and took up his violin and began to play the tune.

I peered into my cup and made my decision.

It was a risk, of course, but if rebuffed, I could always burrow deep into this nest of blankets, with honeyed elixir in hand, and blame all on the madness of our near-drowning. And as Holmes and I were consummate gentlemen of our time, I could do so with the certainty that it would be the last word on the matter.

I sang.

“ _A pair of hearts are racing_

_at chance might laid to waste_

_A pair of hopes rekindled_

_After the case_.”

Holmes sank to my feet, instrument and bow still in his hands.

He leaned closer, and closer, until our lips met.

Soft, chaste.

Delicate, but not tentative.

First kiss.

“Holmes?”

“Anything.”

“I should like to rest,” my cheeks warmed, “near you.”

The words were coy, but the tone, and the sentiment, were earnest.

“Lie down there on the sofa.”

It took an embarrassing amount of effort on both our parts to move my cocooned form from one furnishing to another, but when I had finally stretched myself out, Holmes took his violin up once more and launched into a low, dreamy variation on the music hall tune we’d been bandying.

He waltzed about the centre of the room, and my eyes flit from his gaunt limbs to the content expression on his artistic face to the rise and fall of his bow.

And then I floated away, upon a soft sea of sound.

And so it is no hyperbole when I write of ‘ _the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives_ ,’ but that is only half the tale, for whatever it took from us, it has repaid in abundance.


	4. The Wooden Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is fascinated with a picture of a sailboat. Rating: Teen 
> 
> Inspired by [Le voilier](http://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/163598265090/pearl-nautilus-ren%C3%A9-quillivic-le-voilier-1920) by René Quillivic. Anachronistic because the wood-engraving is dated 1920.
> 
> Also inspired by [this tumblr post](http://plaidadder.tumblr.com/post/163858281174/romancing-the-text-jeremy-brett-paper-and) about the word 'haptic' as it relates to Granada Holmes.

Satisfied that I had all the information pertinent to the case, Watson and I rushed out of the clerk’s office in Bond Street and sent word to Mrs. Hudson to have our trunks, which were ready and waiting at the top of the stairs in our Baker Street rooms, dispatched to Paddington Station.

So absorbed was I in the case and the journey ahead, that I’d taken two full strides before I noticed I walked alone.

I stopped and turned back.

Watson was planted in front of the window of one of the many art galleries decorating the avenue. The picture that held his attention was of a ship sailing upon a sea of swirling waves. My companion resembled an open-eyed somnambulist as he reached a hand out as if to touch the canvas.

His fingertips hitting the glass pane woke him from his reverie. There was a loud harrumph from inside the gallery. A man appeared in the window, his face contorted in such a vulgar expression, wretched mix of scolding schoolmaster and dinner party snob, that I was forced to quell the desire to offer him a demonstration of my cross-hit right under his pretentious jaw.

Watson’s cheeks pinked, and he held up both hands in mock surrender.

“Watson?”

He turned and nodded and we were, once more, on our harried, hurried way.

Lengthy train journeys are marvelous conduits for reflection as well as discussion. Watson and I had the compartment to ourselves; he sat opposite me with the windows and changing landscape flanking one side of us.

I wondered if he would mention the picture as it seemed to resurface amongst his thoughts once he’d settled into his seat—a supposition at the time, for something was obviously on his mind, but, in truth, I had no clue as to its nature or forbearance.

I lit a cigarette, despite polite admonition from a sign at my left hand to refrain from doing so, as a sign that candor was welcome and honoured, and that we might dispense with some of the formalities that the public gaze often demanded of us.

And it worked.

“You once said ‘Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms,’” he said. “But there’s strange and then there’s wonderful. How that artist—French, a Breton according the label—created the sense of motion,” he made an undulating gesture with his hand and fluttered his fingers, “in an inert work, well, it’s simply lovely. And it was a wood-engraving. Imagine, the sea, wet and tumultuous, carved from a block of wood, stolid and stoic, then pressed into ink, then pressed onto paper, and yet the sense of movement persists.”

I smiled and smoked and murmured a few pleasantries to demonstrate that I understood and shared his awe.

We both fell into silence. When my thoughts were quite my own, it occurred to me that Watson and I shared a haptic nature.

My hands, like an insect’s antennas, are instruments of my mind, collecting data on the size, shape, and dangers of the concrete world around me. They weigh paper. They find floorboards recently pried. They brush a dead man’s coat, moist, or not, with morning’s dew. Any detective who does not make use of all senses, including touch, will find himself a very poor one.

And so it is for my doctor companion: setting a bone, palpating a mass, measuring a pulse. I’ve observed Watson at work, his authentic work, not the silly uncorking of the medicinal brandy, and have noted his own hands as expert as he claims mine are in manipulating the fragile instruments of his own profession.

But we not only rely on our hands as tools in the work setting, we enjoy using them, indeed, derive a pleasure, which I believe to be heightened compared to that of most, from touching objects. It manifests in my violin-playing or in Watson’s month-long search for a new winter coat, he having to rub between his fingers, and against his cheek, every candidate in the metropolis before making his decision. It is in the way that he cups a coffee or tea in two hands for a second too long or the flicker across his face as he runs an idle finger along an antique frame.

I like touching things. He likes touching things. And it struck me, there in the silent train compartment, that if we were to touch each other, we might get along famously.

Well, even _more_ famously.

But I kept my hypothesis to myself for quite some time.

In the meantime, inquiries were made, funds were released, and a plan set in motion and by the time the yuletide season of gift-giving approached, I had what I desired in my own two hands.

And I gave it to Watson.

His face was aglow, his eyes shining. He grabbed me ‘round the neck and thumped me, hard and jollily, on the back.

“How on earth did you manage it?”

I shrugged.

He grinned.

Then he did what I expected him to do, indeed, what I myself had done when the original wooden blocks had arrived from the shores of Brittany, before I had handed them over to a woodworker for fashioning into a hinged box.

He rubbed them.

“It feels just as I imagined. A wooden sea, Holmes. God, it’s lovely. Just lovely.”

The ship was in the centre of the lid; the waves curled ‘round its edges and the sides of the box.

Of note, the box did not join the jumble of bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece. It rather found a home on the table beside Watson’s bed. I know this because one week after I gave it to him, on the day that much of the Christian world calls Epiphany and many fewer celebrate as the anniversary of my birth, Watson gifted me with a scarf of soft ‘bees wing’ wool and I enjoyed the first of many chances to test, and confirm, my hypothesis.


	5. Bibliomancy, Flights of Fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A despondent Watson has his fortune told using William Clark Russell’s _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_. Hurt/comfort. Rating: Teen. Warning for suicidal thoughts, internalised homophobia.
> 
> I used this online copy of an 1877 edition of volume one of The Wreck of the Grosvenor and a random number generator to select three lines and used them in the order that I thought best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my GYWO bingo square 'Bibliomancy.'

“It’s a lovely volume,” says the bookseller, examining the tome. “I quite enjoy Mister Clark Russell’s sea stories myself. And in good condition.”

Save for the tear-stains.

“And you wish to part with it?”

I nod.

I wish to part with everything. I wished this chapter to be the final one of the tale of Doctor John Watson.

I am tired. I am defeated.

Holmes is dead. Mary is dead.

I have borne the acute pain of grief and now, three years after losing my friend and two years after losing my wife, I am quite done with this world.

But wait, I didn’t lose them, like curious children in a crowded marketplace, they were wrenched from me.

 _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_ once held me spellbound, like Holmes’s deductions or Mary’s smile. But now it is more like the flowers of this unseasonably warm April or the chirrup of the morning lark that serenaded me on my route here, a reminder of the colours my eyes used to see and the warmth my skin used to feel.

All outside is grey. All inside is numb.

Adventure is something for others to enjoy, even vicariously. Happiness, too.

“I can offer you—“

The bookseller’s watery gaze flits. His monocle drops. There is a quail-like rustling behind me.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly, pressing the book back into my hands. “You! Stop, thief! You robbed me of _The Origins of Tree Worship_ yesterday! You shan’t fleece me a second time! Halt!”

I turn just in time to see a hunched, deformed figure hobbling quickly out the door. The bookseller rushes after him.

I wait a few minutes, but when the bookseller does not return, I give into myopic despair.

Providence had seen fit to thwart even my feeble attempt to settle my debts and leave a coin for a disgraceful burial!

Oh, woe is me!

I wallow in my wretched state and walk, with _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_ forlornly tucked under my arm.

“Your fate, sir? Love, fortune, future?”

And even with full knowledge that I must be a delicious prey to the likes of the lady, sitting at her makeshift table with cards and dice and even a crystal ball resting in a nest of worn velvet, I stop.

“How much?” I ask.

Her eyes are half-hidden with kohl. I cannot tell her age. “What it’s worth.”

Well, that’s unusual.

I nod.

“For you, a special,” she says, with a wink of eyelashes that cannot possibly be her own unless she is half dromedary. “I open your book,” she waves at my arm, “you close your eyes and point to a word.”

I chuckle. It has been so very long since something amused me.

Why not?

I nod again.

“Past, present, future,” she says and holds out her hands. I have no anxiety in turning over _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_ to her. After all, I was about to rid myself of it moments ago, if she employs some sleight of hand and makes away with it, well, that’s hardly less than a fool such as I deserve and wholly fitting in the warped logic of my fatalist despondency.

She closes her eyes and holds the book together. Her hands are gloved, but I note the long fingers extending the length of the sides.

“Past,” she says and lets the book fall open.

I close my eyes and point.

“Channel. ‘Running up Channel’ is the phrase.”

My chest tightens.

It wasn’t running up Channel. It was falling down one. And not a channel, but an abysmal torrent. How many nights had I reached for Holmes and touched the dagger-sharp cascade. How many times had I heard my cry echo from its murky depths. How many times had I imagined myself, falling, falling, being dashed upon rocks, lungs filling with water.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she says, and, fool that I am, I believe her. “Present?”

I nod.

“Stumbling,” she read. “Stumbling and sprawling.”

“Yes,” I say grimly. As apt description of my current state as any: without grace, without containment.

“All right,” she says. “Future.”

Fool that I am, I hold my breath, then release it when she says,

“Sloped.”

I frown. “Sloped?”

Like a cemetery hill?                                                                                                                                       

“Sloped to and fro under him,” she reads.

My cheeks warm. The finger under my collar rubs damp skin.

These days I often wake in shame-filled sweat, and not just from Reichenbach nightmares. A widower might be forgiven a lurid dream or two of his late wife, but surely not of his late friend.

“Thank you,” I mumble. I reach in my pocket, scoop coins, and deposit them all in a heap beside her crystal ball.

I take the book and turn.

“The tide,” she calls after me. “That last is referencing the tide, which like fortune, is always moving. If you but wait a moment, the tide will shift.”

I nod and flee—and collide with a newspaper announcing the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair.

I stroll across the Park that evening and find myself at the Oxford Street of Park Lane. The crowd is thick. I fight my way upstream through the current of curious onlookers.

I think of the fortune-teller’s words: running up Channel.

I listen to the plain-clothes detective weave his fabrications and withdraw in disgust, striking someone and somethings. At first, I do not notice my human victim, only his scattered books.

 _The Origins of Tree Worship_ and several other titles lay sprawled on the ground.

He is the book thief of earlier. He wobbles as he rights himself, although righting is probably a generous term for one so hunched.

Good Lord.

The fortune-teller’s words.

Stumbling and sprawling.

I apologise, pick up his books, and extend my hand. With a snarl of contempt, he bats my hand away, turns upon his heel, and disappears with his loot among the throng.

The rest is well-known to readers of _The Strand_.

With Holmes’s return, the revolver that might have administered my own execution is used to subdue the villain Colonel Moran.

Holmes and I sit opposite each other once more in our Baker Street rooms.

I glance at the bookshelves and note the gap.

“Perhaps I should fill that. I still have my copy of the first volume of _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_.”

“Excellent,” says Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “No library should be without an offering from Mister Clark Russell.”

I drop my head.

“Holmes.”

“Yes.”

“Much needs to be said.”

“It will be.”

“And if certain things ought not to be said, might they be rescinded?”

“Without penalty, but if you prefer, we needn’t speak at all.”

I lift my head and meet his gaze.

He smiles and extends his hand.

I smile and take it.

He leads me to the bedroom.

And later when his body covers mine, I have the fleeting thought that I am now the tide, sloped to and fro under him.

And so my fascination with Mister Clark Russell’s tales is resurrected. I go on to read many more of his delightful stories, but never again make us of, or, thankfully, have need of, its prophetic properties.


	6. A Man's Castle is Where His Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Man’s Castle is Where His Heart Is.  
> Length: 221B  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Holmes and Watson have a sand-castle building competition.  
> Author's Note: for the LJ Holmes Minor monthly prompt: hand utensils

“I commend you, Watson, for suggesting we add a good-natured wager to our sand-castle building competition.”  
  
“Thank you. I commend you for suggesting we make use of the child’s bucket given to us by the hospitable, though slightly misled, agents who rented us the cottage.”   
  
“Yes, they seemed surprised that we weren’t a family of eight, but if two bachelors accustomed to London’s crowded quarters are willing to pay for the space to stretch their limbs whilst on holiday, why shouldn’t they have it?”   
  
“Indeed. Well, I’ve worked up a thirst; that pint at the Hairy Barnacle, courtesy of your pocket, is going to taste divine. Are you ready?”   
  
“Yes, you first.”   
  
Watson tore down the towel-curtain that had hung from the sand-sunk shafts of two parasols and served as partition between the two camps.   
  
Like Holmes, Watson had not confined himself to use of the complimentary bucket and tin spade, rake, and sieve, he’d also used sticks and shells and rocks in his sculpting. He smiled and waved at his creation.   
  
Holmes frowned “It’s a…house?”   
  
Watson huffed. “It’s an ample-chested, romantic dwelling, an island of serenity where the best of age-old traditions are still upheld just as this lovely grey wall upholds the lichens that mottle it.”   
  
“Oh, it’s poetry!”   
  
Watson looked over Holmes’s shoulder. “Ah, skeps.”   
  
Holmes beamed.


	7. The Gondolier's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mishap in Venice. Crack. Silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [When in Venice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7644895/chapters/22081418).

“There was one flaw in my plan!” cried Holmes.

“O-o-only one!” I stammered. The fire, the blanket, and the basin of hot water in which my feet were rooted were all making laudable progress toward their goal, but the cold and damp had not yet relinquished their miserable grips on me.

“As the floodwaters receded, the intrigue advanced, did it not, my dear Watson? Who’d have thought that our quiet Venetian holiday would afford a catastrophe of Biblical proportions as well as a pretty little problem such as the one we solved today?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, accepting the proffered cup of tea with a sniff, “probably every reader of _The Strand_.”

Holmes snatched the cup from my hands.

“Wha—? Oh!” I sneezed twice. When the shaking and shuddered had quieted, I took the cup back, sipped and sighed. “Oh, that’s good.” Then I turned to Holmes. “The flaw in your plan, my good man, was failure to communicate one vital detail to your partner!”

“You were no doubt distracted by the colours, Watson, the scenes, the scents, the sounds. How could a city like Venice not hold captive a romantic heart such as yours?”

“Venice is lovely, but I was not distracted. You said you were going to be in disguise in a gondola. You neglected to mention that you were going to be disguised as the gondolier! I waited and waited at the window, then I spotted the old woman. I knew it was you!”

“Your instincts were sound, Watson. That devil Venucci makes as convincing a crone as I ever have. And you took him wholly by surprise! I confess that I myself did not foresee you leaping out of that window, directly on top of him. Well done!”

“I did not leap. I fell.”

“Gravity cares not for the intention, my dear man.”

“True.” I drew the blanket tighter ‘round me.

“Well, we can rest easy tonight knowing that we aided the Venetian police in catching a very dangerous criminal, _Lo Squalo_.”

“Yes, the shark was netted after he and the minnow were fished out of the canal,” I muttered.

“You do yourself a disservice, my dear man. You are much larger, and lamentably a bit less graceful in the water, than a minnow.”

I shot him a look, which he ignored.

We watched the fire in silence, then Holmes said,

“Yes, one flaw in my plan, Watson.”

“It’s the flaw in every plan of yours, Holmes: not telling me exactly what you’re up to!” I cried.

“Nonsense. It was my _Nessun Maggior Dolore_. It’s a bit rusty. Out of practice, don’t you know.”

Then he launched into song.

_Nessun maggior dolore,_

_Che ricordarsi del tempo felice_

_Nella miseria._

“Dante by way of Rossini. ‘There is no greater woe than in hours of deep distress to recall past happiness’” he said.

“Yes,” I grumbled. “Past happiness—like when my feet were warm—ACHOO!”

Holmes eyed me mournfully. “And you hadn’t spilled your tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cobbled together from several inspiring bits: [this tumblr post](http://violsva.tumblr.com/post/164349386723/prompt-wimsey-really-really-specific-simile), John Singer Sargent's watercolours of Venice, and a quote prompt. Here’s The Gondolier’s Song from Rossini’s Otello, the language is from Dante’s _Inferno_ V.


	8. The Naughty Holiday Bucket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Naughty Holiday Bucket  
> Length: 1250  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Notes: Object insertion, dildos, impact play, riding crops, Daddy kink (actually Schoolmaster/boy), mention of anal beads.  
> Summary: On seaside holiday, Holmes and Watson have pints at the Hairy Barnacle. Filthy thoughts ensue.  
> Author’s Note: This follows on from Chapter 6.

From the moment that Holmes and I crossed the threshold, I felt that the Hairy Barnacle was the perfect spot to end a day of frolicking in the waves, collecting shells, and building sand-castles.

One side of the pub was windows with lovely views of the shore. The walls and ceiling were decorated with rusty anchors, half-splintered figureheads, and other tarnished, broken, but nevertheless intriguing bits of ship-life.

What caught Holmes’s eye when we entered, however, were the photographs of ships and shipwrecks framed and mounted behind the bar, and I’ve no doubt he steered us toward a pair of far-end stools for express purpose of having a better look at them.

The pub was almost empty when we arrived, but no sooner had the barman set a pair of frothy pints before us when it began to fill up. It was explained that during the summer months there was music on offer in the late afternoons.

Of course, we were charmed.

Our glasses were at half-mast, so to speak, when Holmes shot me a fleeting, but unmistakably naughty look.

I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“The agents who rented us the bungalow believed us to be a family of eight and gifted us a child’s holiday bucket.”

I nodded.

“While you were readying yourself for our seashore excursion, I chanced to find another bucket, one that must have been left behind by the former occupants.”

“A holiday bucket?”

“Of sorts. But certainly not for children.”

My lips spread into a tight grin. “And what was in this bucket?”

“Three items.”

“Spade, rake, sieve?”

Holmes huffed, then waited a moment. The musicians were assembled. They launched into their first tune to the cheers ‘round the room, and it was at that very instant that Holmes leaned close and whispered.

“A phallus.”

“Human?” I asked in horror, then felt his breath against my ear.

“Ivory.”

I turned to look at him.

He tilted his head.

“Were the other two items of a similar nature?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not precisely the same, but equally provocative.”

My eyes widened. “Bacchanalia by the sea!” I exclaimed, certain that between the music and the chatter no one save Holmes could hear me.

Holmes’s lips twisted in that amused smirk he always makes when I vocalise a word outside of the English language.

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

“How was it?” I asked.

He smiled and there was the flash of naughtiness once more. It faded, and he fixed his eyes on his pint.

“Bit shorter than mine, bit thinner than yours.”

I nodded, and as the music played on, my thoughts wandered.

_“Watson!”_

_“Holmes! You said you would be occupied all afternoon!”_

_“The tide came in much quicker than foreseen. My dear man…”_

_My skin burned with shame. “I was just curious…”_

_He knelt on the bed and said in a low tender voice, “Don’t you know by now that your curiosity is my command? Here.” He covered my hand with his own. “There are far more comfortable positions than this one if you’ll allow me to assist you.”_

_I met his gaze. “You think me perverse or,” and here my voice grew bitter, “pitiable.”_

_“I think you delicious, delectable, and, most relevant at this moment, delightfully sod-worthy.”_

_The ivory shaft was removed and, with Holmes guiding me, I shifted onto hands and knees._

_Then I felt the cool, smooth tip at my rim, teasing my puckered flesh in a way that made my half-hard prick swell. Then it breeched me._

_“That you prepared yourself is a crime, Watson. My fingers are more than equal to the task.” Holmes caressed my lower back, then dipped his hand low, rubbing the crease between pelvis and thigh. I lifted my arse, arching into to his petting, and he sank the carved prick deeper into me._

_Stretch, burn._

_I forced myself to relax, exhaling loudly and apologising._

_“I thought you’d be offended, Holmes. I’m not in any way dissatisfied with—oh!”_

_It was a sharp thrust, which had the effect, perhaps intended, of temporarily silencing me._

_And then it brushed against that sweetest of spots deep inside me and I shuddered and shook. Then there was a wonderfully firm, beautifully slicked hand ‘round my prick, stroking me._

_“Your pleasure is my pleasure, Watson,” said Holmes and I came right then, with the ivory shaft filling me and Holmes’s wicked grip wringing the last drops from my slit._

“Watson!”

I felt the jab of a hard elbow.

I heard clapping.

The musicians bowed.

“Well done!” I cried, smiling and joining in the applause.

“You enjoyed the performance, Watson?” asked Holmes with a grin.

“Of course!”

“Would you care for another?”

I was relieved to see my glass was empty.

At least, I’d remembered to drink!

“Yes.”

While Holmes was seemingly engaged in getting the barman’s attention and communicating our request, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“The second item was a riding crop.”

“A crop?” I echoed.

“And from a glance, I can say with some certainty, it’s one that’s never known equestrian use.”

Oh.

_WHACK!_

_“What are you, my lad?”_

_“I’m a naughty boy, Master.”_

_WHACK!_

_“What naughty thing have you done?”_

_“I set a crab in the Master’s bed!”_

_WHACK!_

_“And what did that naughty crab set by the naughty boy in the Master’s bed do?”_

_“It pinched him!”_

_WHACK!_

_“Do you like your pink buds pinched, naughty boy? Like this?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“I can’t hear you!”_

_“Yes, I like havin’ ‘em pinched, Master! Just like that! Oh, please! Bitten, too!”_

_“What a naughty, naughty boy you are!”_

_WHACK!_

_“With such a pretty pink bottom. Do you promise to be good?”_

_“So good, Master.”_

_“Then come here, my beautiful boy. Come sit in my lap. No, this way.”_

_“Oh, Master!”_

_“The crop’s not just for birching naughty boys, it can also fill their pretty holes. Mmm. Let me taste those pink buds, my beautiful boy.”_

“Watson!”

“Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve not touched it.”

I stared at the pint. “Oh, forgive me,” I said, grabbing, then pouring as much of the amber liquid down my throat as possible.

I sputtered.

“I think it’s time we returned to the bungalow,” said Holmes with a concerned expression.

“Oh, no!” I protested, wiping my mouth and pointing to the half-full glass. “I need to finish this.”

And I also needed to be able to walk comfortably to the door; the throbbing between my legs would be a definite obstacle to that.

The musicians were starting up again.

And it seemed as if I were being visited by angel and devil. For I knew that I should not ask the question, and yet, and yet…

“Holmes, what was the third item?”

“A necklace.”

I frowned. “Like a collar?”

“No, a strand of beads, each slightly larger than the previous, like a string of black Borgia pearls.”

Oh.

For him?

Oh.

For me?

Oh.

At this rate, I’d never leave the Hairy Barnacle.

I turned my head. “Holmes—“

The mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes told me everything.

I shook my head and breathed, “You bastard.”

“My parents were, in fact, married, Watson,” he said, chuckling.

“You found this holiday bucket?”

“Slight prevarication. it’s for you to find. In your suitcase.”

“Let’s go.”

“The bill’s already settled.”

Over the course of our holiday, Holmes and I would spend many a lovely evening at the Hairy Barnacle, but, as with so many things, the first time was the most memorable.


	9. Cuckold. Rating: Teen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson steps out on Holmes...with Captain Basil. Rating: Teen. 
> 
> For the Kinktober Day 5 prompt: cuckholding.

The wooly lump of briny-smelling man grunted as the barman set the glass before me.

The barman was evidently fluent in the sailor’s language. “No, Capt’n,” he said. “Not until you settled last month’s tab.”

More grunts. Sharper, then softer.

“Uh, on me,” I offered.

The barman snorted and shook his head. “Your lucky day, Capt’n.”

When the second glass appeared, the sailor lifted his head. “Thank you. To your health, sir.”

“And yours.”

Our glasses clinked.

“Now what brings a nice respectable gent like you to the East End Rat Trap?”

“Needed some air. Got thirsty.”

The sailor grunted.

I sipped. So did he.

We drank in silence, then the sailor set the glass on the bar and said,

“I’m Basil. Captain Basil.”

“I’m John.”

Captain Basil’s eyebrows rose. “John, is it? Well, that’s quite familiar. John what?”

“Doctor John,” I replied with a tiny smile.

Captain Basil buried his smile in his glass. “You’re far from home, aren’t you, Doctor John?”

“Yes and no.”

“Maybe things are too quiet at home. You get restless.”

“Things are quite good at home.”

“And yet you’re here?”

I inclined my head in acknowledgement of his point, but said no more.

“Got someone special at home?” he asked.

“Very special.”

“And where’s this someone tonight, eh?”

“I don’t keep a leash. Or a log.”

“Maybe you ought to. Might do some good.”

I stifled a laugh. “Not one to be tethered. Neither am I.”

“Nah, you look like a man used to holdin’ the reins, if ever I saw one, but, uh, this place ain’t for you. Rough, filthy, chocked full of unsavory characters.”

“I believe savory’s in the estimation of the taster, Captain.”

“Is it now? Well, well. How d’you like your kippers, Doctor?”

“Salty. Very salty.”

“Your ‘someone special’ a little too sweet, eh? Too soft?”

I shrugged.

Captain Basil leaned closer and said,

“I got a little spot, off the alley ‘round the corner, if you want a taste of Captain Basil’s very salty rum.”

“Only if I can hold the reins,” I said, turning my head and giving him a hard stare.

He flushed, then whispered, “Whip, too, if that’s your pleasure, Doctor.”

“Oh, I’ll be holding everything that matters, Captain.” I pretended to study his face. “You know, you’re quite a rough, filthy, unsavoury character yourself.”

“Roughest, filthiest, most unsavory,” he replied with a grin. “Want a demonstration?”

“Several. There’s a back door. I suggest we both use it.”

Captain Basil drained his glass. “Who goes first?”

Our eyes met.

“I suggest you lead the way, Captain,” I said, finishing the beer.

He stood, tottering, muttering under his breath. “I’m going to show you what you’re missing at home, Doctor. You’ll never want to go back to your ‘someone special.’”

“Unlikely. In fact, I’m betting my someone special’ll have you by the bollocks before the sun rises. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson’s finally forgiven you for the fire.”

He grinned, then lumbered toward the rear of the pub.


	10. The Violet Boat Rally (Crack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Violet Boat Rally  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221b  
> Notes: Meta-crack. All the Violets + Phil and Ray (OMCs, but not really because they're actually soccer announcers).  
> Summary: The first race to see who is the speediest ACD canon Violet on water.  
> Author's Note: For the LJ Holmes Minor com Feb. prompt: the violet. The first motor yacht race was held in 1903, so it's still (a tiny bit) within the scope of canon.

Welcome, everyone, to the first Violet boat rally! The winner today will go home with a trophy, the James of her choice, and the right to say she’s the speediest ACD canon Violet on water. Let’s see, who do we have, Ray?    
  
_ First, Phil, it’s Miss Westbury. Look at her go! Like she’s taking her grief over her murdered fiancée out on those oars!  _  
  
Indeed, Ray. But, uh-oh, here comes Violet Morton née Smith!    
  
_ And didn’t she pick the right craft, Phil?  _  
  
Indeed, the paddle-boat! She takes the lead!    
  
_ Look at those legs! Like she’s on an isolated road with a ridiculously-disguised unwanted admirer after her! _  
  
I must mention a disqualification at the beginning of the race. Unfortunately, Miss Violet de Merville will not be joining us. The rule is that each Violet had to captain her own craft.    
  
_ Yeah, Phil, you’ve got to think for yourself in this race, and that little lady, despite being told by many others, just didn’t want to believe the rules. And no Royal godfather— _  
  
Or oarsman, Ray!   
  
_ —is going to change that! But, look here! OH, YES, PHIL! DIDN’T I TELL, YA?! IT’S VIOLET HUNTER! IN A MOTOR YACHT! WITH A DOZEN SCHOOLGIRLS IN UNIFORM! LISTEN TO THEM SHOUT FOR JOY AS THEY CROSS THE FINISH LINE! WHAT A GREAT DAY FOR VIOLET BOATING! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this collection in five months! I'll take any kind of prompt that anyone has! Boats, ships, the sea, sailors, etcetera!


	11. On the Boat to Norway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: On the Boat to Norway  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Poetry + fic, pre-slash Holmes/Watson  
> Summary: Holmes and Watson on the boat to Norway at the conclusion of the "Black Peter" case.  
> Author's Notes: I was challenged to do a [dróttkvætt](https://yeahwrite.me/writing-help-drottkvaett/%22) (which is an Old Norse poetic form with a great number of rules) for National Poetry Month (US). The opening verse is this form, which is supposed to be of a bragging, boastful tone. For the Holmes Minor monthly prompts.

**_Sharp wit sparks like spit-fire._ **

**_Spoke point sets disjointed_ **

**_clues a-frame. None claim more_ **

**_clarity. Beware red_ **

**_herrings, harpoon’s hard-won_ **

**_heap! His spear’s unfearful,_ **

**_slays forsooth as sleuth and_ **

**_slight-built herb of gilt mind!_ **

 

Glass raised, Watson gave a slight nod to the smattering of applause that followed his impassioned recitation. Then he drained the glass of its clear liquid contents and, abandoning the centre stage that he’d created for himself, crumpled into the seat beside me.

“My dear Watson,” I said. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected by aquavit.”

“It’s a dróttkvætt. The poem. Norse.”

“Yes, a rousing bit of verse and singularly appropriate given our destination.”

“For years, I’ve praised you and your methods in the written word as printed in _The Strand_ , why shouldn’t I also at the top of my lungs in this fine mess hall. Did you like it, the poem, I mean?”

“Don’t be daft. Of course, I liked it. I’m wholly flattered. When we arrive, I shall have it chiseled in stone to commemorate its inaugural recital.”

He grunted, then grumbled, “As you wish. Too long and painful, I suppose, to have it inked on your bicep. Though I believe there’s a fellow on board who will oblige you. That artist who works at the Jermyn Street bath, I saw him as we boarded.” He sniffed. “By the way, did you catch that bit at the end about the herb?”

“Yes, the reference to Captain Basil was not lost on me. You are a most clever bard when you are under the influence of…” I gaze thoughtfully at our glasses, his empty, mine, full, “…the briny air.”

As I looked up at his pink cheeks and his shining eyes, I felt my own cheeks warm at his ardent words, this time intoned soft and low, but with a delivery just as heartfelt as his public performance.

“You were brilliant, Holmes, in the Black Peter case, just brilliant, and this year, I must say, has been your best so far.”

“Thank you. I confess that I agree with your estimation. But the year is only half done, my dear man, and so, what better time for a well-deserved holiday? We shall spend a couple of weeks enjoying Scandinavian hospitality and,” I added, tilting bottle to glass, “spirit, and then will be ready to finish the year just as strongly.”

“Hear, hear,” he cried. Then he tapped the rim of his glass with mine. After sipping long and thoughtfully, he took his glass in hand once more and eyed its contents.

“There’s nothing like this stuff,” he observed.

“Indeed,” I said, grateful to my English upbringing for giving me that perfect reply to every statement, regardless of character.

Watson sighed wearily, heavily, like the albatross-noosed ancient mariner that he was decidedly _not_ , then scanned the room.

“How long until we reach Oslo?” he asked.

“My dear Watson, we only left England twenty minutes ago.”


	12. Still on the Boat to Norway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Still on the Boat to Norway  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 700  
> Notes: The poem is a rondeau. Continuation of previous chapter.  
> Summary: Holmes confesses his love on the boat to Norway.   
> Author's Notes: For those familiar, this is a tribute to 'the river scene' in Dorothy L. Sayers's _Gaudy Night_.

There’s nothing like a cold blast of sea air and the daunting prospect of speaking a foreign language to sober a fellow.

Holmes and I were standing on deck. I was absorbed in a thin book of Norwegian phrases and Holmes was staring at the horizon, no doubt making curious observations and inferences to himself.

For what reason I shall never know, I suddenly looked over at him.

Oh, God.

At once, I turned back to the open pages, feigning supreme interest in the subject of verbs conjugated in the imperative, but I felt my chest heave as if I’d just been chasing a swift-footed villain ‘cross the whole of London.

And I suppose my hands must have shook, or perhaps it was a strong gust of wind, for the pamphlet was soon being removed from my grasp and place securely in my coat pocket.

“It would be a pity to lose it at this point in our journey,” Holmes mumbled, “especially given the pains that were taken to obtain it in the first place. Excuse me.”

And with that, I was left alone to ponder.

Holmes’s expression.

He hadn’t been looking at the sea. He had been looking at _me_ , and not in a detached manner, such as when he announces, with a smug magician’s flair, that he, too, is pleased that I’ve changed my toothpowder.

He, the man who studies everything, hadn’t been studying me; he’d been admiring me, like a man in love. And when he was caught at it, he blushed as if dipped in boiling water.

My mind reeled.

I don’t know how long I stood there, holding onto the railing, gazing at the waters, breathing in the frigid air, blank, but at some point, thought returned.

I’d known, I suppose, for a while.

The months after Holmes’s return were awkward, of course, but we’d eventually settled into routine and rapport as agreeable as before his demise. And this year, well, the cases had been many and each nothing short of thrilling. There had been frequent calls to be brothers-in-arms in the resolution of wrongs and such closeness, well, bred intimacy and, yes, baser suggestions.

Yes, I supposed I’d known for a while, but this.

To say nothing now would be tantamount to farce, and a cruel one at that. I had to find him and speak plainly.

Just then, something was thrust in my pocket. I looked about, but the messenger had disappeared. I retrieved the something, a scrap of paper, as it were, unfolded it, and read:

 

**_Dear Watson, yours is physic most arcane_ **

**_which purges bile, both byzantine and plain;_ **

**_invites trust where none had been before;_ **

**_inspires duet in a once-solo score;_ **

**_and stirs the humours, both sacred, profane._ **

****

**_The dangers never faced alone, in vain;_ **

**_the joyful awe that never seems to wane;_ **

**_they are, like well-known sleuth of news-stand lore,_ **

**_dear Watson, yours._ **

****

**_Anxiety chokes heartfelt words that strain_ **

**_to be confessed, but here, I shall not feign_ **

**_indifference. ‘Tis you that I adore,_ **

**_today, tomorrow, and, yes, evermore,_ **

**_and thus, devoted, humbled, I remain,_ **

**_dear Watson, yours._ **

 

I found him in the mess.

Without hesitation or preamble, I fell into the seat opposite him, leaned in, and whispered, “Your sentiments are wholly reciprocated, Holmes.”

To my surprise, the words brought no relief or joy to his darkened countenance.

“How can they be? You stand in front of a room full of strangers and bellow my praises. I furtively write a bit of trite verse and flee.” He looked about the room and spat, “Such a coward!”

“It’s beautiful verse. And how can you feel such things for such a dullard? You stand in front of a room full of strangers and tell them how a Cardinal’s vestments might be responsible for his death while I can only stand and gape, slack-jawed.”

He looked at me. I met his gaze, refusing to blink until he inclined his head slightly in defeat. Then he sighed,

“At the risk of sounding like the heroine of a cheap novel, ‘Oh, what shall we do now?’”

I grinned and replied, “At the risk of sounding like the scoundrel of that same novel, ‘Drink.’”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rondeau is a thirteen-line poem, divided into three stanzas of 5, 3, and 5 lines, with only two rhymes throughout and with the opening words of the first line used as a refrain at the end of the second and third stanzas.


	13. Drunk on the Boat to Norway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still on the boat to Norway, Holmes & Watson get drunk and recite limericks. Rating: Teen.
> 
> Continuation of the previous 2 chapters.

“Cheers, Holmes.”

“Cheers, Watson.”

I was not yet so inebriated as to consider the heady miasma that hovered between Holmes and myself anything other than the joyous offspring of the aquavit flowing through our veins and our recent confessions of admiration for one another. Nevertheless, I was savouring the moment.

The dimly-lit galley of the Norway-bound vessel where we were imbibing resembled nothing so much as a slightly disreputable pub, which was quite perfect for our jocund mood.

We were tucked into a corner with a bottle and a pair of glasses between us. I knew that Holmes had no taste for aquavit, and so was surprised to find him partaking in almost equal measure as myself. His tolerance must have been near his taste, though, for after two rounds his tongue was loosened enough to proclaim, apropos of nothing.

“You have a way with words, my dear Watson. Perhaps your talents are wasted on prose chronicles of problem-solving and you should dedicate yourself exclusively to poetry.”

I snorted. Words were swirling ‘round my head. They settled in five neat little rows, and I proclaimed.

 

_There once was a gardener from Leeds_

_whose bed had nothing but weeds_

_After a try every hour,_

_with nary a flower,_

_he asked, ‘Is it my plough or my seeds?’_

 

“Is that what you had in mind, Holmes?” I teased.

I wouldn’t have thought that the great Sherlock Holmes could howl with mirth, but he did. Then he eyed me and filled his glass with more far precision than I could’ve managed in that moment. He took a long draught, cleared his throat with a wet gargle and launched into an admirable rebuttal.

 

**_There once was a gardener from Kent_ **

**_who found all his shovels were bent_ **

**_with trouser spade in hand_ **

**_he sowed at a stand_ **

**_coming, as it were, as he went._ **

 

And so, we went back and forth, with plenty of drinks and toasts and exchanges of lascivious glances in between recitation of bawdy verse. I recall one of mine.

_There once was a baker from Cork_

_who never used knife, spoon, or fork_

_when the village buns needed kneading_

_the village ma’ams were left pleading_

_“Oh, please, sir, just a little more torque.”_

 

I recall one of Holmes’s.

 

**_There once was a horseman from Slaughter_ **

**_who had a rough-riding daughter;_ **

**_to his dismay,_ **

**_the girl ran away_ **

**_with the first dapple stud that trot her._ **

 

The last round of which I have clear recollection began with Holmes’s offering.

 

**_There once was a gentleman Watson_ **

**_who, though hung like a pair of brute oxen,_ **

**_when offered a pocket,_ **

**_a snug but slicked socket,_ **

**_cried, “My, but how much of me slots in!”_ **

 

And ended with mine.

 

_There once was a sleuthhound named Holmes_

_known less for his clues than his moans_

_heard up and down Baker Street_

_as he writhed in his sheet_

_for want of a mouth on his bones._

 

Then a dark curtain fell, and I remember no more.

 

 


	14. Seaside stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Seaside stitches  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 500  
> Notes: Holmes/Watson, Tropey Mctropes-a-lot with opening act Tired Clichés.  
> Summary: Holmes is injured on holiday.  
> Author's Notes: for the September prompt and I tried the AO3 tag generator and got 'warning: seaside porn.' This isn't porn, just the lead up.

“Holmes! Oh, good Lord, your shoulder! It’s bad. You’re going to need stitches. Can you make it back to the bungalow?”   
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Good. My bag’s there.”

* * *

“Take the morphine, Holmes.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Whiskey?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“But it will hurt!”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So stubborn! Medicine—and distilleries—give us things to ease pain and yet a mulish segment of society will insist on suffering. I suppose you think it makes you more of a man.”  
  
“Perhaps.”   
  
“Suit yourself. Here we go. Fine bit of business this is, by the way. The great Sherlock Holmes survives blackguards, villains, and Napoleons of Crime but manages to dash himself on the rocks while bathing during the first seaside holiday he’s ever enjoyed as a grown man! I can just see the headlines! And just what were you doing? Your best impression of a haddie was what it looked like. I might have thought you were showing off if there’d have been anyone besides me in a vicinity.”  
  
“You said yourself that I’m new at this business. I suppose I misjudged the recreational element.”  
  
“You misjudged the strength of the current and the shape of that rock, you mean! Are you certain you won’t take something, Holmes? You’re looking pale, and I don’t need to be taking your pulse to know it’s racing.”  
  
“After.”  
  
“Very well. I was known for a neat hand in medical school. There shan’t be a scar.”  
  
“Don’t be too neat, Watson.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I’d like a souvenir of my first seaside holiday.”

* * *

“There. How’s that?”  
  
“Thank you. It is an advantage, having one’s own personal surgeon.”   
  
“Just wait ‘til I turn nurse-dragon! Now I recommend that we go down to The Hairy Barnacle and have pints and oysters and play cards or darts—with your good arm, naturally—and watch the people go by and you tell me all about them?”  
  
“Lead on, Doctor.”

* * *

“Well, it’s late, and I’ve been beaten at every game we’ve played, and if I drink any more, I shall require nursing rather than be in a state to provide it. To the bungalow?”  
  
“Yes. Do you need a hand?”  
  
“How ‘bout we lean on each other?”  
  
“Admirable plan.”   
  
“A full moon. We shall either fall in love or meet a ghost. Perhaps tomorrow’s agenda shall be a search for buried treasure!”  
  
"Watson, you are an incurable romantic.”  
  
“Says the man who just split his shoulder playing ‘look-at-me’!”  
  
“Watson?!”  
  
“Oh, Holmes. Improbable, impossible, etcetera.”   
  
“Well, you’re not quite right.”  
  
“Am I not?”  
  
“I was showing off for you. But then I got distracted when I saw you, uh, adjusting the position of your bathing chair and that’s when I misjudged the rock.”  
  
“Silly fool!”   
  
“Guilty. But I’m told, by the yellow literature my fellow lodger leaves about our shared rooms, that one is apt to lose one’s head on seaside holiday. What? What are you thinking?”  
  
“You mean you can’t deduce it?”  
  
“Does it involve a palliative treatment of the non-opioid variety?”  
  
“One that’s certain to be a memory-souvenir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
